Blightmaul and the Axe of the Ebon Fang The palace of Nerub-ar loomed like a corpse in the icy wastes, its spires jagged and broken, reaching skyward as if clawing at the heavens for vengeance. Once a stronghold of the nerubians, it was now a festering hive of undeath and corruption, a monument to the Scourge’s relentless dominion. To Blightmaul, it was yet another battlefield, yet another chapter in his unending struggle to reconcile the darkness within him. The Horde’s warbands had gathered at the icy cliffs below, their banners whipping in the frigid wind. Orcs, trolls, tauren, and Forsaken stood together in uneasy alliance, their common goal binding them against the horrors within. At the forefront of this grim host stood Blightmaul, his dull eyes reflecting the faint light of torches and frost. The Mission The warlord leading the assault-a hulking orc named Grulmak-grunted as he unrolled a crude map of the palace interior. “Our scouts report the Scourge is rallying in the palace’s heart,” he growled, his tusks gleaming in the torchlight. “Their leader, an ancient nerubian deathlord called Ankarath the Bleak, is amassing forces. We will cut through the palace, destroy him, and cripple their presence here.” Blightmaul’s gaze fell to the map. “Ankarath,” he murmured. “A deathlord of Nerub-ar. His destruction will be no small feat.” Grulmak sneered. “You’ve faced worse, haven’t you, deadman? Or have your bones grown brittle?” Blightmaul ignored the jibe, his focus already on the task ahead. “What of the weapons he wields?” The orc hesitated before answering. “He carries the Ebon Fang, a relic of his kind. Said to drink the strength of its victims and twist it into dark power.” Blightmaul’s gauntleted fingers tightened around his plain blade. “Then we’ll see whose strength it drinks.” The Invasion The assault began at dawn, the Horde’s warcry echoing through the frozen wastes as they surged toward the palace. Nerubian sentinels spilled from hidden tunnels, their chittering voices rising in unison as they met the invaders head-on. Blightmaul fought at the vanguard, his movements precise and unyielding. His blade carved through carapace and sinew, his strikes imbued with a brutal efficiency honed through years of undeath. Yet even as he fought, he felt the weight of the shadows lingering at the edges of his mind. The Horde pushed forward, their losses mounting with each step deeper into the palace. The interior was a twisted labyrinth, its walls pulsating with the sickly glow of necromantic energy. Blightmaul could feel the air grow colder as they neared the heart of the palace, the presence of Ankarath pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. The Deathlord’s Arena They entered a massive chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its center stood Ankarath the Bleak, his towering form draped in decayed chitin and necromantic runes. In his clawed hands, he held the Ebon Fang-a massive one-handed axe forged of black steel and etched with glowing red veins. “You dare trespass in my domain?” Ankarath’s voice was a venomous hiss, echoing off the chamber walls. “You will join the others in servitude.” Grulmak barked an order, and the Horde surged forward. But the deathlord was no ordinary foe. With a single swing of the Ebon Fang, he unleashed a wave of necrotic energy that ripped through their ranks, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in its wake. Blightmaul barely managed to deflect the energy with his blade, the force driving him back several paces. He watched as Grulmak was impaled by one of Ankarath’s claws, the orc’s lifeless body cast aside like a broken toy. The Forsaken warrior stepped forward, his voice cold and steady. “You wield death as a weapon, Ankarath. Let us see how it fares against one who knows it well.” The Duel Blightmaul and Ankarath clashed in a whirlwind of steel and shadow. The deathlord’s movements were swift and brutal, his strikes imbued with the corrupting power of the Ebon Fang. But Blightmaul was relentless, his undead body impervious to pain and his mind hardened by years of battle. As the duel raged, the chamber seemed to warp around them, the necrotic energy of the axe clashing with Blightmaul’s will. The deathlord’s voice echoed in his mind, a chorus of whispers promising power, revenge, and freedom from the pain of undeath. “Take the axe, warrior,” the whispers urged. “Claim its strength as your own.” Blightmaul gritted his teeth, his grip on his blade tightening. “I do not need your power,” he growled. But even as he spoke, he felt the shadows within him stir, drawn to the axe’s dark energy. He knew he could not destroy Ankarath without risking everything. The Ebon Fang The fight reached its climax as Ankarath raised the Ebon Fang for a killing blow. In that moment, Blightmaul lunged, driving his blade into the deathlord’s chest. The force of the strike shattered the runes on Ankarath’s body, and the deathlord let out a deafening screech as his form disintegrated into a cloud of ash and shadow. The Ebon Fang fell to the ground, its crimson glow dimming. Blightmaul stared at it, his chest heaving from the effort of the fight. The whispers in his mind grew louder, urging him to take it. He hesitated, his thoughts a storm of conflict. Finally, he reached down and gripped the axe. The moment his hand touched its hilt, a surge of energy coursed through him, filling the hollow void left by Shadowrend. The Horde warriors who had survived watched in silence as Blightmaul stood, the Ebon Fang glowing faintly in his grasp. A New Path As the Horde regrouped outside the palace, Blightmaul lingered in the shadows. The axe felt alive in his hand, its power both intoxicating and dangerous. He knew the cost of wielding such a weapon, yet he could not bring himself to cast it aside. The darkness within him had found a new vessel, and Blightmaul knew his path was far from over. Turning toward the horizon, he fixed his gaze on the distant mountains. Khaz Algar held many secrets, and the Ebon Fang would be his key to unlocking them. For better or worse, he would wield the axe-and carve his own destiny into the bones of the world.
Blightmaul and the Axe of the Ebon Fang
The palace of Nerub-ar loomed like a corpse in the icy wastes, its spires jagged and broken, reaching skyward as if clawing at the heavens for vengeance. Once a stronghold of the nerubians, it was now a festering hive of undeath and corruption, a monument to the Scourge’s relentless dominion. To Blightmaul, it was yet another battlefield, yet another chapter in his unending struggle to reconcile the darkness within him.
The Horde’s warbands had gathered at the icy cliffs below, their banners whipping in the frigid wind. Orcs, trolls, tauren, and Forsaken stood together in uneasy alliance, their common goal binding them against the horrors within. At the forefront of this grim host stood Blightmaul, his dull eyes reflecting the faint light of torches and frost.
The Mission
The warlord leading the assault-a hulking orc named Grulmak-grunted as he unrolled a crude map of the palace interior. “Our scouts report the Scourge is rallying in the palace’s heart,” he growled, his tusks gleaming in the torchlight. “Their leader, an ancient nerubian deathlord called Ankarath the Bleak, is amassing forces. We will cut through the palace, destroy him, and cripple their presence here.”
Blightmaul’s gaze fell to the map. “Ankarath,” he murmured. “A deathlord of Nerub-ar. His destruction will be no small feat.”
Grulmak sneered. “You’ve faced worse, haven’t you, deadman? Or have your bones grown brittle?”
Blightmaul ignored the jibe, his focus already on the task ahead. “What of the weapons he wields?”
The orc hesitated before answering. “He carries the Ebon Fang, a relic of his kind. Said to drink the strength of its victims and twist it into dark power.”
Blightmaul’s gauntleted fingers tightened around his plain blade. “Then we’ll see whose strength it drinks.”
The Invasion
The assault began at dawn, the Horde’s warcry echoing through the frozen wastes as they surged toward the palace. Nerubian sentinels spilled from hidden tunnels, their chittering voices rising in unison as they met the invaders head-on.
Blightmaul fought at the vanguard, his movements precise and unyielding. His blade carved through carapace and sinew, his strikes imbued with a brutal efficiency honed through years of undeath. Yet even as he fought, he felt the weight of the shadows lingering at the edges of his mind.
The Horde pushed forward, their losses mounting with each step deeper into the palace. The interior was a twisted labyrinth, its walls pulsating with the sickly glow of necromantic energy. Blightmaul could feel the air grow colder as they neared the heart of the palace, the presence of Ankarath pressing down on them like a suffocating fog.
The Deathlord’s Arena
They entered a massive chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its center stood Ankarath the Bleak, his towering form draped in decayed chitin and necromantic runes. In his clawed hands, he held the Ebon Fang-a massive one-handed axe forged of black steel and etched with glowing red veins.
“You dare trespass in my domain?” Ankarath’s voice was a venomous hiss, echoing off the chamber walls. “You will join the others in servitude.”
Grulmak barked an order, and the Horde surged forward. But the deathlord was no ordinary foe. With a single swing of the Ebon Fang, he unleashed a wave of necrotic energy that ripped through their ranks, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in its wake.
Blightmaul barely managed to deflect the energy with his blade, the force driving him back several paces. He watched as Grulmak was impaled by one of Ankarath’s claws, the orc’s lifeless body cast aside like a broken toy.
The Forsaken warrior stepped forward, his voice cold and steady. “You wield death as a weapon, Ankarath. Let us see how it fares against one who knows it well.”
The Duel
Blightmaul and Ankarath clashed in a whirlwind of steel and shadow. The deathlord’s movements were swift and brutal, his strikes imbued with the corrupting power of the Ebon Fang. But Blightmaul was relentless, his undead body impervious to pain and his mind hardened by years of battle.
As the duel raged, the chamber seemed to warp around them, the necrotic energy of the axe clashing with Blightmaul’s will. The deathlord’s voice echoed in his mind, a chorus of whispers promising power, revenge, and freedom from the pain of undeath.
“Take the axe, warrior,” the whispers urged. “Claim its strength as your own.”
Blightmaul gritted his teeth, his grip on his blade tightening. “I do not need your power,” he growled.
But even as he spoke, he felt the shadows within him stir, drawn to the axe’s dark energy. He knew he could not destroy Ankarath without risking everything.
The Ebon Fang
The fight reached its climax as Ankarath raised the Ebon Fang for a killing blow. In that moment, Blightmaul lunged, driving his blade into the deathlord’s chest. The force of the strike shattered the runes on Ankarath’s body, and the deathlord let out a deafening screech as his form disintegrated into a cloud of ash and shadow.
The Ebon Fang fell to the ground, its crimson glow dimming. Blightmaul stared at it, his chest heaving from the effort of the fight. The whispers in his mind grew louder, urging him to take it.
He hesitated, his thoughts a storm of conflict. Finally, he reached down and gripped the axe. The moment his hand touched its hilt, a surge of energy coursed through him, filling the hollow void left by Shadowrend.
The Horde warriors who had survived watched in silence as Blightmaul stood, the Ebon Fang glowing faintly in his grasp.
A New Path
As the Horde regrouped outside the palace, Blightmaul lingered in the shadows. The axe felt alive in his hand, its power both intoxicating and dangerous. He knew the cost of wielding such a weapon, yet he could not bring himself to cast it aside.
The darkness within him had found a new vessel, and Blightmaul knew his path was far from over.
Turning toward the horizon, he fixed his gaze on the distant mountains. Khaz Algar held many secrets, and the Ebon Fang would be his key to unlocking them. For better or worse, he would wield the axe-and carve his own destiny into the bones of the world.